


Stars

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Crossover, Game of Thrones-esque, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Like... they are brothers here but irl they obviously aren't, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pseudo-Incest, Some Plot, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 16:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16287680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: Simon believes that it’s high time their house returns and he takes the throne, which - together with about a hundred other people - he thinks is rightfully his. His younger brother Viktor is a sweet young thing not entirely convinced that he wants to continue the tradition of marrying within the family and he doesn’t actually give a damn about the throne, he just wants to live in peace and pray that he doesn’t go mad like the rest of his family, thank you very much.





	Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [behzaintfunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/gifts).



> Inspired by the word prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _Pinned by the sun between solstice_  
>  And equinox, drowsy and tangled together  
> We drifted for months and woke  
> With the bitter taste of land on our lips”  
> — PABLO NERUDA

“When I am King…” Simon says. He likes to say it a lot. Viktor remembers hearing it night after night, since he was a baby in the crib, all the nights in foreign houses, rented beds.

 _Yes,_ Viktor wants to say every time. _When you are King, what will become of me?_

He’s never been particularly keen on the idea of marrying Simon. He’s never said it out loud, of course, and deep inside he’s always known it was supposed to be that way, because in his House, siblings married each other for thousands and thousands of years, but it wasn’t what he dreamt of. _Dreams_. He’s known to be a dreamer, and it’s saved him many times. Simon will let many of his dangerous thoughts pass if Viktor calls them dreams.

As far as he knows, Simon only dreams of one thing. The throne. A spiked chair Viktor has never seen, somewhere far beyond the sea.

Despite it, Viktor hates the throne with every fiber of his body. The throne cost his family their lives, cost him the home, the safety and love he could have had. And put a wedge between him and his brother, his only living relative. They could have been close, and Simon could have loved him differently if the throne belonged to him by right, if he didn’t have to fight for it with the many people who thought it belonged to them, who thought they had the right to call themselves kings.

Viktor wants no throne, he just wants to go home. He doesn’t know what home means, or where home is. He just knows it’s warm, and it’s his. He doesn’t have to fear being kicked out, doesn’t have to beg for anything. He doesn’t remember their old home, and their old home doesn’t remember them.

Sometimes, Simon promises him the home he dreams of, right after he says “When I am King…” _When I am King, we will have a home, a palace with large halls and warm chambers…_ and the throne, of course.

And in those moments, Viktor really wants him to be King. It’s one of the dreams he’s allowed to talk about.

“I want you to be King,” he whispers, half for Simon, half for himself, so that he doesn’t forget it, and because he wants to hear the promise once again.

The touch of Simon’s fingers in his hair feels familiar, and the closest to gentle he’s ever known. He reaches out tentatively, rests his hand on Simon’s arm. Simon takes him by the chin and Viktor - maybe unwittingly - jerks his head back. This is where he would draw the line, if it were up to him.

The hold on his jaw gets firmer, almost painful now. If it gets a shade stronger, it will leave bruises. Viktor has this scale memorized. He closes his eyes, tilts his head and waits for Simon’s lips to land on his own.

Simon is the only person he’s ever kissed. He’s the only person he’s allowed to kiss. Not that he hasn’t dreamt of kissing other people, but those are dreams. Like when he saw a tall man with hair almost as light as his in the port - a rare sight here among the dark, black-bearded faces - and the man smiled at him before disappearing in the crowd. Viktor dreamt about him many nights, and smiled in his sleep, and earned himself a bruise on his jaw.

But all of the memories he has of Simon aren’t bad. When they were younger, Simon would comfort him when storms were raging outside the houses that weren’t their own, he’d hold him and wrap him in a blanket first and then in his arms, and cover his eyes when the lightnings would flash and scare him. He would teach him their mother tongue and tell him stories about their parents and the kingdom beyond the sea.

Bruises belong to Simon as stars belong to the Moon. Sometimes they appear together and sometimes they don’t. And Viktor would always prefer the stars to an empty sky.

And then Simon says it, with his lips against Viktor’s neck, teeth ready to leave another star.

“We’re going home.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

The place they land at doesn’t look warm, although it does look safe, impenetrable. It’s a mass of rocks, hard, sharp and uninviting, surrounded by a beach with white sand. From afar, the rocks don’t even look like a castle, rather like someone threw blocks of black stone together. Black stone. Dragonstone.

Neither Simon or Viktor were made for the long sails, as water doesn’t sit well with dragons. But even after the long months on the sea, it doesn’t feel like finding solace. The island is deserted, but the walls alone look like they want to keep them out. Their old home doesn’t remember them, doesn't welcome them.

Still, Simon falls on his knees and kisses the land under his feet. Viktor can’t tear his eyes from the scene. It doesn’t look like his brother at all, it’s not the man he sometimes fears, not the cold moon that spreads constellations over his skin when the planets are aligned wrong. Against the immense mass of rocks, Simon looks small and vulnerable, and when he gets up, it’s Viktor who wants to kiss him and not vice versa. He feels the grains of white sand that got stuck to Simon’s lips.

The gates are guarded by giant gargoyles. The gargoyles are the only thing he remembers from his old home, or maybe he just knows them from Simon’s memories, his stories. They haunted his dreams since he was a child, and in his dreams, they would come alive whenever he walked close to them, and they would snarl at him. They’d chase him out of the only home he’s ever had.

This time, they don’t, and he dares to lay a hand on one. All he feels is cold stone. None of them come alive. Everything is dead here.

They wander the long, dark corridors for a good while. Viktor doesn’t remember anything; he was a baby when they left. And Simon might remember, but the child’s memory is fragile and prone to be played tricks on. It’s been too long, and Simon is as much a stranger here as Viktor is.

Eventually, they find the throne hall, a dark and empty place with a throne carved in stone. Simon walks up the two steps that lead to it, and sits on it. Viktor has always imagined this moment, but differently. In his imagination, there was a giant throne, and a crowd of people and a lot of noise, and Simon sat on the throne solemnly and everyone bowed to him. But there are no people now, and it’s a different throne, and Simon rather randomly wanders towards it, and sits on it not with the grace of a king, but rather with the weariness of an old man.

There’s fire burning in the giant fireplace, started by someone from their small entourage, but the stone has been cold for too long, and it only slowly lets the flames warm up the salty air. The shadows in the hall are long and tall, making everything seem monstrous.

“It doesn’t feel like home,” Viktor says, just because the words are burning on his tongue and he needs to spit them out, even if it means another bruise.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, Simon holds out his hand and when Viktor takes it, he pulls him closer, and sits him on the edge of the throne. Viktor doesn’t remember since they last shared something. Maybe a bed, when they were children, in one of the rented houses in Free Cities. And now they are sharing the most valuable thing.

“No, it’s not home,” Simon says, and even his voice doesn’t sound the same. It sounds just as Viktor remembers it from the nights he was scared of thunder. “It’s the start of the journey home.”

Viktor nods, and for the first time in years, it’s not because he’s afraid not to agree with Simon. He really understands now. And he knows that maybe the throne isn’t the most important thing. It’s the destination, but the journey is healing just as much.

**Author's Note:**

> *Why did I write evil Simon? He’s probably the kindest person in the world, I have to strain my ears when he speaks because he’s so quiet, and… I don’t know. He kind of bullied Vik lovingly during the World Cup and it probably stayed in my subconsciousness. Shame on me anyway.
> 
> *If you think there’s a Dany-Viserys parallel, it’s because there is.


End file.
